


Diversion

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural, iZombie (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Clothed Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, One Night Stands, Reference to STDs, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Dean clanks his glass against Major's. “To being alive."“To being alive,” Major mutters.





	Diversion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luckydip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckydip/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this treat, luckydip!
> 
> This takes place in early iZombie season 3. No Supernatural spoilers.

Dean doesn’t notice the guy at first. He’s too busy downing his Jack straight and making small talk with the bartender. Her name is Crystal. She’s a senior at the University of Washington and wants to become a nurse. She’s about a 2 on the likelihood scale - too young for Dean, and too aware of it. Dean doesn’t push the issue. He smiles enough to flatter without going full-on creeper and enjoys her shirt's deep v-neck. Never hurts to sightsee.

Dean is distracted when the coughing stars. With the bartender possibility gone, he's looking for new diversions. The only game of pool in progress has lame stakes, not even playing for cash. A couple makes out by the entrance. Some dude with a beard bangs away on the old school Pac-Man arcade.

Dean only notices the coughing because it doesn’t stop. The guy’s choking, asthma attack. It isn't stopping. Dean is about to switch into rescue-mode, but an inhaler beats him to the punch. After two hard pulls, the coughs subside in a rasped shudder.

Crystal checks on the guy, and Dean nurses a snort behind his final gulp of whiskey. He's never seen an asthma attack used as a pick-up before. He wishes he'd come up with the idea.

His skepticism gives way to honest-to-god interest. The inhaler’s not a pick up. The guy looks like shit. ‘Like shit’ isn't the right way to put it. The guy is one hot son of a bitch, he just looks like he  _feels_ like shit. He’s tall, strong shoulders, definitely a lifter. Might be ex-military. Gym rat? Personal trainer? Blue button-up shirt and jeans; cleaned up but not too clean. Perfect for this yuppie Seattle version of a dive. He’s clutching his inhaler in a shaking hand.

Dean wants a closer look, and he could use the distraction. The case he and Sam are on is killer. More dead bodies every day, and they’re nowhere close to hunting down the thing doing it. Sam is back at the motel researching up a storm. Dean needed a break. Might as well get it.

He strolls to the other end of the bar. Leans up on the counter, nice and casual. “Safe to mix beer with near-death experiences?” He nods towards the guy's almost-empty bottle.

The guy shrugs, mouth quirked in wry acceptance. “Can’t hurt at this point.”

“Thought you were pulling the con. Going for digits from the bartender." 

The admission earns a smirk. “I’m good, man. All you.” Some life has come back to the guy. He’s still too pale and too foggy in the eyes, but his death grip on the inhaler has loosened.

Dean sets his glass on the counter. “I’m Joe.”

“Major,” the guy says. Dean’s brow shoots up with a disbelieving grin. Major gives him a cursory look in return. “Not from around here, are you?”

“In town for work,” Dean offers. Hey, it's not a lie. “I look like a tourist or something?”

Major nods at his ensemble. “I can usually tell when the flannel’s supposed to be ironic.”

Dean looks down at himself - open red flannel shirt, gray tee underneath. He shrugs off the comment. “I’d like to think I’m pretty genuine.”

“I’ll bet,” Major says, with the hint of a smile. “Flying solo tonight?” Dean regards the question with interest. Could be small talk. Could be gauging. Probably isn't, but maybe...

He shrugs, no point overplaying his hand so early. “Partner’s on the clock. I’ve got R&R detail.” He glances at Major’s beer, one sip away from empty. “Guessing you know the feeling.”

Major chuckles and runs a tired hand through his hair. Dean tries not to stare. He’s always had a soft spot for lost causes. Already, Dean's itching to smooth the guy’s hair back into place, or mess it up even more. Could Major handle making out in his condition? May need to keep that inhaler on him. The thought makes Dean grin. “Next round’s on me,” he says, hailing down to Crystal before Major can interject. “My thanks for not croaking. Would have weirded out my night.”

“Makes two of us,” Major agrees, with a note of irony Dean decides he likes. He would bet this guy has seen his share of fucked up shit. 'Fucked up shit’ is all it takes to get a Winchester interested.

Major tips back the rest of his beer. He’s got a neck that needs a mouth and teeth on it, stat. Dean still isn't sure this guy swings the right way, but hey - nothing wrong with enjoying the view. He's a tourist, after all.

Dean clanks his glass against Major's. “To being alive."

“To being alive,” Major mutters. His first swallow drains a third of the bottle.

Dean quirks a brow and downs his tumbler in one go. He shakes his empty glass down the bar, with an interested eye on his new company. “So,” he prompts, “what do you do when you’re not choking in bars?”

***

Turns out, Major can _majorly_ drink.

It's been awhile since Dean's gone round for round with someone. Very few people can drink him under a table. As they spill out onto the street together, Dean feels more out of his head than usual. The air has a damp quality to it, a touch of cold and a moldy smell. Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets.

He glances at Major coughing into a balled fist. “You ok?” Major's brow arches at the concern. “I’m a goddamn humanitarian, all right?” Dean grumbles.

“Always worse when rain's coming,” Major explains, a little short of breath. “Air's different. I deal with it.”

Dean nods; plenty of stuff he deals with day-to-day that doctors wouldn’t know what to do with. He's got pain stitched so deep, even Cas can’t fix it.

Sure enough, Dean feels the first splash of a raindrop on his forehead. Size of a gumdrop, bursting on his brow. His shoulders hunch instinctively, and he digs hands deeper into his pockets. “You close?” he asks. Must be closing time everywhere. All the storefronts are dark and empty on this block. Cars are parked along the curb, but they're the only people on the sidewalk.

“Around the corner.” Major pauses, and Dean stutters to a stop next to him. “Where are you staying?”

Dean doesn’t want him knowing he’s at the Emerald Motel. It's not that he doesn't trust the guy, but it's eaiser if locals know as little as possible. Strings are a bad idea in his line of work. He shrugs, keeps it light. “Car’s on the next block.” Major frowns, and Dean cocks his head. He decides to press his luck. “What? You worried or something?” Rain splatters ice-like on the back of his neck.

“You’re not driving-”

“Nah, but I’ve got a sweet backseat. Crash there a few hours, then head back to home base.” Dean scrapes teeth over his bottom lip, tries to read the eyes narrowed on him. Is the guy even drunk? He’s still too pale, not-quite-steady after the asthma attack. But he looks pretty damn lucid, almost...sober?

Meanwhile Dean’s head is buzzing. He’s thinking bad thoughts about how cold it’ll be in the back of the Impala. (No offense, Baby.) How it’s got to be warmer wherever Major’s heading. Hey, Dean can be casual about this. He can crash on a couch, this doesn’t have to be anything it’s not. So he says, “Unless you're asking me up?” And yeah, that wasn’t casual at all.

Major’s frown deepens. This is usually Dean’s cue to back off, but he can’t quite make himself this time. He's warm with whiskey, and he offers a smile. Dean keeps it small, apologetic. _‘Hey, sorry if you took that the wrong way.’_

“I’ve got a roommate,” Major says slowly. “But we’ve got space if you can keep it down.”

Dean raises a hand, Scout’s honor. “Won’t even snore,” he promises.

That’s when the sky opens, raindrops big as horse pills. Within seconds, Dean is soaked. He curses under his breath and lets Major hail him around the block. The rain is coming down so hard, it's hard to see. The streets seem silver as the rain kicks off the pavement. Dean's hair mats down, water streaming down his face. He balls his hands in his pockets, grumbles, “Friggen Seattle.” A genuine laugh answers from ahead of him. Short, warm, and nice.

Even in the middle of a torrential downpour, Dean has to admit that Major’s house is pretty sweet. It’s got a decent yard, nice and homey. It's a spot that should have kids rolling around, basketball hoop, the nine yards. There’s a covered patio, and Dean sheds out of his shoes without being asked. He grimaces as he peels off his socks and flannel shirt. Major's t-shirt is stuck to his chest, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. Dean glances at his mouth instinctively, open and swallowing air.

“That sucked,” Major assesses, and Dean laughs. Their eyes meet. No lights are on in the house, no real way to tell what the other is thinking. Dean is torn between the rain soaking his skin and the warmth of the Jack pooled in his belly.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” Major says. “Shirt too? Doubt you want to sleep in that.”

“Slept in worse, but yeah - shirt would be great.” Major opens the front door to a dark downstairs. He's bot a big living room off the entranceway. The TV is sweet, has to be at least 62”. Dean spies a kitchen down a hall. Stairs head straight up from the doorway. Major starts up them, Dean waits behind until he gets a questioning look. Dean clears his throat and follows.

Major’s bedroom is off the main hall. The bathroom upstairs is between Major’s room a closed door Dean assumes must belong to the roommate. His room is a good size too, king bed in the center, open walk-in closet. Clothes, shoes, and what not are strewn about. The clothes all look casual; maybe Dean was right about the personal trainer thing? At the bar, all Major said was he was doing something in fitness. Didn’t seem all that interested in expanding.

“Hell yeah,” Dean greets the towel tossed at him. "Thanks, man." Blue, soft. One of those big hotel-style towels that he and Sam never stay in nice enough places to get. He scrubs his hair and wipes the rain off his face.

“No problem.” Major's wiping himself down too. The towel leaves hs hair wilder than before, and Dean swallows back the sound he wants to make. The storm should have sobered him up, but he’s still a little dizzy, and his eyes keep coasting back towards Major. The guy peels off his t-shirt and, holy shit, he’s _jacked_. Dean’s mouth goes dry. He turns his back as he peels off his own shirt. This could get real bad real quick.

“What’s the ink mean?” Major asks. He’s spotted the warding tattoo - if he spotted the tattoo, it means he’s looking at Dean.

“It’s a ward,” Dean tells him. No reason to get specific. “Supposed to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

“Has it?”

Dean smiles wryly. “Not exactly.”

Major makes a thoughtful sound as he turns around. Dean’s ears perk at a zipper being lowered. Major has on black boxer-briefs. His back is all shoulders, slanted down. The small of his back is begging for a hand. His lower body’s thick as a tree trunk; fuck, Dean needs to get out of here.

“I, uh-” Dean clears his throat, “living room couch, right? Downstairs?”

“You can’t sleep in those.” Major points at Dean's jeans, and Dean feels the gesture right in his groin. “Couch’ll get messed up.”

“Course it will,” Dean agrees miserably. He should have slept in the Impala, would have been less torturous than this. He unhooks the top button of his jeans. Sniffs to hide his discomfort as he forces the wet denim down his legs. The jeans keep sticking on him, make him grumble and curse. He hangs the towel over a shoulder, positions it to drape over the front of his underwear. Dean wonders how much privacy he’ll get in the bathroom downstairs, maybe there's lotion in there. He can do it quick and quiet, just needs to get this knot of tension out. More importantly, Dean needs to sober up. He isn't getting any tonight, stop thinking about it. Dude's probably straight as an arrow, good samaritan helping out a drunk out of towner.

But then, Dean feels eyes comb down his back, fixed on him like hands. He has three options: the couch, push his luck and get tossed, or push his luck and get something out of it. Dean's never been the type to play it safe. Major's body is sick, and Dean has all kinds of not-smart ideas in his brain. He tries to keep his grin controlled, cocky. “Could stay here,” he suggests. “Hate to risk that couch.”

Major smirks, and it’s _hot_. Dean’s already taking a step forward, he’s a fish on a lure. “It’s a pretty good couch.”

“I'm sure it’s outstanding,” Dean agrees. "Best fucking couch there is." He's said the words more to Major’s abs than to his face. His eyes won't stay still, there’s too much body to look at. The guy is _obscene_ , all muscle, and Dean's out of his head. That’s the thing about guys. With chicks, Dean knows how to play along. He can be the rough-and-tough out of towner if they want. Or he can let himself be used, a one-night stranger to cover in nail bites and hickeys.

With guys, Dean always gets too much of a flutter in his belly. There's too much uncertainty, it's out of character and embarrassing. Drink and excitement warm Dean's skin. Does Major do this much? Will he be slow and careful with it, or will he shove Dean on a wall? 

He deflates when Major’s smirk sinks back to thoughtfulness. “On second thought, the couch might be better.”

“What…?” Dean _knows_ he’s drunk, because he can’t hide his disappointment. He rolls his eyes, realizes he’s being overdramatic, but he was _so close_. “Yeah, uh, sure,” he mumbles. “Couch. Got it.”

“Look.” Major sighs. “It’s…” he grimaces, averts his eyes. “It’s not asthma, all right?”

 _Oh shit_ , Dean thinks - then frowns, because Major is wincing. He said it out loud. “Sorry,” Dean mumbles, now he’s the one cringing. He knows how that sounds, even before Major's expression sours. There’s anger in the look, disgust, and more than a little hurt. Dean feels like shit. He should have guessed - but why would he - fuck, he didn’t know.

“It is what it is,” Major murmurs. He grabs Dean a t-shirt from the closet, UW logo - probably played football or something. He's blisteringly hot in his underwear and nothing else; and pale, that little tremor back in his hands. Dean is still gravitating towards him. He wants to - what? What does he want?

Dean clears his throat. “So, uh - I get we can’t - but - I mean, you can maybe...” Major frowns, and Dean blows out a frustrated breath. “What can you do?”

Major raises a brow. “What can I do?”

Dean blinks through the haze of lingering whiskey. He wants to make sense, wants to stop tripping over how bad he still wants this guy. Dean feels his own age in front of Major, chest not as strong as it used to be, stomach getting soft over what used to be a six pack. He steels himself. “You’re hot as fuck. And I’m here, so...”

Major’s expression doesn’t change. Hard eyes, mouth in a set line. After a moment, he mutters just loud enough for Dean to hear, “This is stupid.” Some unvoiced decision made. He crosses the room and pulls Dean in.

Dean wouldn’t have guessed the guy was a kisser, but damn, he is. He’s got a slow, patient rhythm. Major sighs, and Dean nibbles after it. Major is sucking on his bottom lip, scrapes teeth over it, draws a surprised groan out of Dean. Dean lets the towel fall off his shoulder, no reason to hide what Major already knows he wants. He gets a hand on his ass for it, and a squeeze through his boxers. Dean’s breath goes out of him. His hissed “Jesus” is swallowed between them. Their bodies grind together, and Dean feels Major’s start through the briefs.

Major shoves Dean's boxers down. His own are still on when they reach the bed. There’s a shuffle on the mattress, a creak of bedsprings. Dean finds himself on top. He has to spread his legs wide to hook around Major’s waist. His knees sandwich Major’s body. Dean realizes how open the position makes him, ass spread for fingers to ease between. Major thumbs around his hole. “Fuck” Dean grits, before Major sits up. They’re kissing again, and Dean’s head is spinning. His cock bobs heavy against Major’s stomach.

Dean looks up at a rustling, just in time to see Major pull a bottle from under his pillow. He laughs, a little unsteady. “Nice.”

“Boy’s got needs,” Major tells him, slicking his fingers. One oiled thumb scrapes Dean’s chest. A wet stripe is left over a nipple. Dean kisses the grin off Major's face and thrusts himself down on Major’s clothed arousal. A low sound answers, Dean's stomach knots. He’s so damn hard already, rubbing on Major is like grinding on a washboard. Dean becomes even more aware of the stretch in his thighs, how open he is. One finger, wet and careful. Dean makes a sound he would rather they both forget, something too high and honest.

“You good?” Major asks.

Dean snorts, even as his pulse races. “Fucking gentleman,” he mumbles, and Major hums agreement. He holds Dean's eyes as his finger presses in. Dean can’t pretend to hold out, his body is jonesing too hard for this. His body embraces Major’s finger like a long lost friend. Dean rocks back, good feelings swimming through his gut. “Mmm,” is all he manages. He braces hands on the bed. They shiver in the sheets, clenching as the finger buries itself deeper.

“There you go,” Major murmurs. It’s kind of hot being coaxed through it. Dean's thoughts are on Major’s cock. He's hyper aware of its outline through Major's shorts; Dean can tell how big he would be in him. But this is fine too, if Major feels more comfortable. This totally works. Dean dips back encouragingly as a second finger starts to fill him. His cock bumps between them, heavy and in need of attention

Dean must be doing something interesting with his face. Major is staring at him, and his eyes are dark. “You should get down here,” he says.

Dean plays it up, lopsided grin at the ready. “Yeah?” Only, he’s already sinking forward, already too easy to read. Major kisses him, and Dean feels the sting of his own swollen lips. The pain shocks through his face, clenches his throat, makes him feel even dizzier. Major’s fingers split wider inside. Dean groans and bucks against him. Fuck, he’s already leaking, precum on the fingers Dean winds around himself. He squeezes over Major’s belly. The two fingers inside him thrust higher.Majore has big hands, thick fingers. Dean hisses, the sound lost in Major’s mouth.

The fingers scissor and spread, slow strokes that have Dean seeing stars. His legs stretch further apart, more of his weight on Major’s body. Dean flushes. Major’s tongue teases his lips wider. They’re close, noses pressed to cheeks. Open mouthed, hot, no room to breathe.

Major adds a third finger. Dean moans between them and slips from Major’s mouth, eyes squeezed shut. “Been awhile,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Major says, which Dean assumes is a shared sentiment. Or encouragement. He doesn’t know. He can't really think anymore.

The three fingers push deep, not messing around. Dean strangles back his groan, hips jolting forward. He tightens his hand around himself. His body braces on a elbow, letting him ball a fist in Major's hair. He pulls his head back, making Major curse under him. It's sexy as hell. Dean bites his chin, and follows it up to his lips. Major grunts under him, hooks his free hand over the back of his neck. His fingers delve deep. Wrist angled. Pushing. Heat spills through Dean's lower body. His mouth is sore, their kiss is too hard, turning his mouth pink.

“Hey, gotta work tomorrow,” Dean mutters.

“Sucks for you.”

Dean doesn’t care. He’s spread so wide, almost all his weight is on Major. His hair is wound up in Dean’s grip. Major's body bridges. Startles a jolt out of Dean, and that’s when Major starts finger-fucking him in earnest. He’s done this before. Has to have. And he’s good at it.

The three fingers push, angle, dive deeper. Stretching. Stroking. Working Dean to a fever pitch. His body rocks in time, pushing up on Major’s underwear. The friction makes Major groan. They fall in and out of kissing, broken by gasps, groans, and curses. Major’s body arches under his again. Dean scratches his scalp, feels an answering grip clench around the back of his neck.

Major’s hand is relentless. Dean wonders how he doesn’t get tired, wonders how his wrist isn’t about to fall off. He keeps pushing, thrusting, deeper, harder, shouldn't be possible to get this damn far inside. But Major gets there, a nudge of three fingers, and Dean yelps, out of his head. He loses Major’s lips, teeth grit against the good things shuddering through his body. He’s not breaking yet, he’s _not_.

Major pushes up, and when his hand moves again Dean spasms into him hard. Dean is out of his mind, hand tight in Major’s hair. He barely hears Major's hiss. Dean's knees dig into Major's sides. He's too spread out, worked too loose. It's getting hard to remember to breathe, his pulse is throbbing through every inch of his body.

If Major was up for being nice, he’d ease into the end. Build it up, and give Dean a chance to reciprocate. But he’s an asshole, apparently, and he doesn't let up. Thick fingers fill him up, relentless and _right_. "Hey- let me-" Dean's words crack, a shudder rolling up his back. He gives into it, jerking himself off in earnest.

Dean tries to stay heavy on Major at least, weight thick on the outline of his shaft. But he knows it's not enough. “Shit,” Dean breathes, “ _shit_.” The world goes fuzzy and white.His mouth forgets to move, and his body can't holds itself up. He’s a goner.

Dean only realizes where he is when his cock slides through the cum staining Major’s sculpture of a body. “Fuck,” he slurs, “Sorry.” He didn't get Major off. Didn't do a damn thing other than spread his legs and let himself feel good.

Major sits up, and Dean lands with a huff on his stomach. He doesn’t answer Dean in words, just scrubs his clean hand through Dean’s hair, then gets up and leaves the room. Dean thinks he hears water. Thinks he hears other things too. It’s all in and out. The room is dark, his body is tingling and still spread open, oil slick between his legs. Dean is warm and satisfied, and heaviness settles into his bones. He tries to keep his eyes open. He really does.

Major must join him at some point, because the space in the bed next to Dean is still warm when he opens his eyes. He squints, grimaces, and tries to rub the stickiness from his eyes. The bedroom's blinds are closed, but the sun seeps in around the edges.

A familiar buzzing hums from his phone, which is...somewhere. “Crap,” Dean grumbles. He rolls out of bed, wincing at the sting that shoots up his legs. It feels awesome. He staggers to his jeans piled on the floor. Phone’s not wet, luckily. He looks at the screen. Already after nine.

Dean answers the call. “Yeah?” he rasps.

“Seriously?” Sam huffs, and the line goes dead. Crap.

Dean forces himself back into his damp jeans. He wishes he had time for a shower, still feels the crust of the oil between his legs. His t-shirt is still soaked through. Dean doesn't bother with his flannel shirt, just drapes it over a shoulder. He hopes Major left his socks and shoes on the patio, or he’s walking back to the Impala barefoot.

It isn’t a surprise to find Major already gone. Dean's lucky the dude didn’t kick him out while he was still blissed out of his mind. He limps down the steps and almost makes it out the door, but he's stopped by a cleared throat. Dean backtracks, and finds a dramatically raised brow waiting for him on the living room couch.

Dean clears his throat and smiles in awkward recognition. “Roommate?”

“Ravi,” the roommate confirms.

“I’m, uh, Joe. Major’s friend.”

“Friend, right...” Ravi says, looking him over.

Ah well, can’t keep up appearances every time. “See you around, I guess.”

“Doubt it” Ravi remarks. He's probably right, but it's a dick move. Dean glowers to show he’s _not cool_ with asshole roommates. Not much of a threat, but it makes him feel better. Silent point made, Dean shows himself out.

Small miracles. His socks and shoes are still on the patio, and they’re almost dry.

***

“Yeah, so I went to see the wife. Solo.” Sam gives Dean a look that he's seen a million times.

Dean shrugs the sentiment off. “And?”

“Turns out there was something about Mister Henderson that didn’t make the police reports.”

The medical office is on the other side of the precinct, down in the basement. Dean is still walking with a limp, but he’s masking it well. It's visible only to Sam, who isn't bothering to hide his annoyance. Lucky for Dean, Sam’s never given a shit which team he’s up to bat for at any given time. He just doesn’t like the work getting slowed down. Business first, that’s his Sammy.

"Let me guess." Dean leans closer. “Personal stash of Grade A human brains?”

“Hidden fridge in the basement, he kept a work space down there.”

Dean flips through the file he’s holding. They’re both in their business suits, FBI badges at the ready. “And you think Kayla Townsend’s murder relates somehow?”

Sam points at a photo in the file. It’s the murder scene, a surprising lack of blood on the floor given the number of gunshots. Sam's focus is on a little white rectangle in the back of the girl’s dorm room. Personal fridge.

“You think we’ll find human brains in Kayla Townsend’s stomach?”

Sam shrugs, acknowledging that it sounds crazy, but that Dean isn’t wrong. Dean shakes his head. Not like they’re new to the undead, in their line of work. But zombies leading normal lives in Seattle on a diet of human brains? That’s like a freaking TV show or something.

They’re at the bottom of the steps. The medical examiner's office is a wide open room. A body is half-uncovered on a metal table in the center. Long blonde hair. Grayish skin. Gunshot wound through the head. Kayla Townsend.

“Ah, you must be the FBI...gents…” the medical examiner freezes when he spots them.

Sam nods and holds out a hand. “Yes, I’m Agent Fraser, this is Agent-”

“ _You’re_ with the FBI?”

Sam frowns, looking between the medical examiner and Dean. Dean smiles weakly. “Roommate,” he explains, motioning at Ravi. Sam’s jaw clenches.

Ravi crosses his arms. “Well,” he mutters, “this should be quite interesting. Shall we?”

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I can be forgiven for creative license with the kissing. I couldn't picture these two with no kissing involved, zombie or no ._____.


End file.
